Monthly Archiv: July, 2015
I had hoped to post more today but alas a houseful of seven happy kids and the need to say, “please shut the door,” six hundred and seventy-five thousand times, left me unable to process too many other thoughts. County Road 21 is taking some down time for the next few weeks with plans to be back for the second week of August. In the mean time we’ll be catching up on farm work, dispensing with farm work, taking walks, canoeing, kayaking, reading, talking, taking naps, and playing endless games of cards.
Blessings on you all.
p.s This just in as I write . . . one of mine to visiting sleepover guest . . . do you know what I call those little poops that are just tiny? Rabbit droppings! I just did a rabbit dropping . . . and on the conversation went to hair, pig tails, and other such important things.
In which I imagine myself doing many things I have no intention of ever doing
and begin with the moral of the story.
Moral of the Story
Imagination is good for what ails us. Our imaginations need more room to move than our feet (a guideline that benefits them both). Laughter and imagination masquerade as lightweights in the journey of life, but in their foolishness hides a wisdom that illuminates reality, rendering the unbearable a little more tolerable and the tolerable a little more pleasant.
Without further ado, the list and then the story…
An incomplete list of terrifying things
Asking for a hug from someone I don’t know very well
Raising up my hands up in church
Praying out loud with emotion
Wearing clothes that call attention to themselves
Going to one of those places where they hike in the nude
Asking for money
Asking for a favor from someone I can’t pay back
Having a messy house when people visit
Drinking too much
Six hours is tight for time. I decide to start with nude hiking and pray as I go. If it’s too crowded, I can always run headlong into the poison ivy. My real life search for hiking au natural locations is not immediately successful. I stumble onto a nude five pin bowling outing an hour away. The thought of me bowling nude is so ludicrous I begin laughing out loud but I go ahead and imagine it anyway. A hike, I realize, is child’s play. God help me! I’ll croak out at my end of the telephone as I book a lane.
I’m banking on the mitigation of terrors to see me through. Nude bowling will make asking a favor from a stranger easy. Conversely, the thought of asking a stranger for a favor while naked ought to keep me bowling with enthusiasm for at least a little while.
Excuse me, I will say – perhaps in the ladies room while changing into the garish clothing purchased for the occasion – I hate to ask, but I need a favor. I’ve left my wallet at home. Can anyone give me a ride to the church? For added bonus, I’ll see if anyone can trade me high heels for the sneakers on my feet.
God bless you and thank you, Jesus! I’ll say as they drop me off.
Arriving intentionally late to the church, I’ll progress up the aisle wearing low cut hip hugging pants and a bright floral shirt that doesn’t quite cover my midriff. Dollar store strings of plastic jewels droop from my neck. My purple purse, sans cash, is on my shoulder. Lipstick is brilliant tangerine. I totter on high heels up to the front. From the pew, I throw up hallelujahs anywhere it feels like a bad idea and wait for a hymn or any other excuse to stand. Given the ferocious affection with which my pants cling to my behind, I’m not sure they’ll notice when my hands go up in the air.
I put them up with the opening chords of the hymn that finally comes expecting just one verse. At verse three, I begin to sway my arms for variety. By verse four, I’m swaying from my hips up to the hands above my head. I’ll have ticked five off the list by then: halfway there.
I exit on the heels of the priest in order to ask for some spare change on the church steps from the maximum number of parishioners. I pull a small sign out of my purse and tape it to an umbrella: Spare Change for Unnamed Need Gratefully Accepted.
After, I’ll take off my heels and walk barefoot to a country western bar down the street. God save us all! I’ll say as I close my eyes and begin bumping bottoms with one of the guitarists on stage. If I don’t ask for a hug from a band member, I can ask for one from the first female bar tender, manager, owner or officer I see when they come to escort me away.
Then I’ll call my husband and ask him to come pick me up so I can come home for the evening to join the twelve friends I’ve invited over. I will have been away from the house for five hours. Dirty laundry on the floor, dirty dishes in the sink, and clutter are guaranteed. Also I will have left this note for the kids:
Brush dog in kitchen. Do not sweep. Dog hair on floor measured before $5 reward.
Ten cent reward for every fly you kill. Leave fly in kill location to claim reward.
Our friends will sit with dog hair gently tickling their feet amidst speckles of dead flies and their blood on the walls and windows. It doesn’t take a lot of wine to get to me, so it’s hard to know how much to aim for. I decide to drink until forcibly compelled by my inner voice to tell everyone there that I love them. How much. Why. Anything I’ve ever worried about that might be between us and four or five things that make them special to me. However little drinking it takes, that ought to decisively qualify as too much.
My imagination makes me laugh at myself. I am a bit proud to have proved it vaguely possible to fit so many ghastly things into six hours though. Strangely, despite not having done a single thing from my list of horrors, I don’t feel intimidated by Liz Hoath or Spandy Andy anymore. I decide that if I feel like doing something else as bold as my purple purse, I’ll do it. If I don’t, I won’t.
A silly bit of nonsense above perhaps, but imagining it opened my eyes to something I couldn’t see before: it’s okay not to go looking for mountains to climb.
A simple thought that is true, and for me, a little bit beautiful.
Sitting in a pew at Our Lady of the CBC, I caught a show about happiness. (Happiness by Design is worth a listen if you like radio.) One portion recapped a book, “The Antidote: Happiness for People Who Can’t Stand Positive Thinking.” Author Oliver Burkeman suggests that trying to fill our heads with happy thoughts is an ineffective strategy for happiness. Instead, he says, we should imagine the worst possible endings for situations we fear. This will lead to the realization that reality is not nearly as worrisome as we thought. Do something you’re afraid to do and see for yourself, he advises.
Burkeman’s challenge got CBC producer, Liz Hoath, to consider her fear of dancing in public and test out his theory. She contacted a man named Spandy Andy who makes people smile by dancing in unexpected places. Together, they went dancing.
I was thinking of Oliver Burkeman’s challenge as I walked into Value Village. A display of purses en route to kids’ shorts reminded me that my own purse was falling apart. My eye caught on a shiny bright yellow purse the size of my entire torso.
I think I might get this, I said to Girl one.
No you won’t, she said. You’ll get the plainest, boringest purse they have.
I almost bought the yellow purse on principle after that, but I couldn’t bring myself to purchase something big enough to fit my wallet, check book, and three or four chickens. Instead, I declared myself in the market for the wildest thing I could handle. A group search for a purple purse ensued. I bought a red change purse for good measure.
Spandy Andy calibre I am not. I have watched the video of the park dancing more than once and felt happy and proud for Liz Hoath. Problem # 1: she did not look stupid enough. Problem #2: that there kind of experience is just plain out of my league.
I think about Oliver Burkeman. My heart remains strangely moved by Liz . I look at my purple purse and know it’s not enough. I take more than a week to write a list of terrifying things. Every time I sit down my fingers say that thinking like this is a bad idea. To unstick myself I say it’s a list of ideas, not things I’ll actually do. I write down everything that comes into my head. Once the list exists, I try to pick one to attempt. Only I can’t. Re-watching the park dancing video doesn’t help. I leave the list another week or two not sure.
The part of my brain with a very dark sense of humor remembers poison ivy. A few years ago I got a very bad case of poison ivy. (This can occur when you decide to clean out a bed of weeds and not worry about potential poison ivy because you’re not that allergic and how bad could it really be anyways.) The only good thing about the raging case of poison ivy that ensued is that I became quite knowledgeable about poison ivy and its treatment. One of the harmless things that works to treat the itch – as opposed to the smushed banana peels that catapult the odds of infection from possible to guaranteed – is to put the itchy parts under water as hot as you can stand it.
The first sensation when you do this is more itchiness. Quickly the itch becomes so intense you can hardly stand still. Following this you are almost literally lifted off your feet with the insanity of the itching sensation tearing into you. After a minute or so (you can only take so much fun) you shut off the water and feel the miracle. Itch is gone. Relief lasts for hour or more at which point you can repeat treatment. The theory is that you overload your nervous system with so much stimulus that it rewards you by temporarily shutting down. (For poison ivy relief, I swear by this method.)
Of course you can’t do one truly terrifying thing, said the black humor part of my brain. You have to do them all. As close to at the same time as possible. Six hours, something like that. The terror will overload your circuits the same way the hot water did. You’ll be hitting that fear factor right out of the park and you’ll hardly feel a thing.
Coming later this week . . . A story of six hours
photo compliments of morguefile.com
Today I’m sharing links to some older posts (fall 2013/spring 2014) and saying a word about sharing. People ask me sometimes if it’s okay to share my posts. The answer is absolutely, yes! (and yes please!) Any help in spreading the word about the blog is much appreciated. If you like what you read on a particular day, tell your friends. If you find something dull, troubling, or unpleasant, why not send along a link to your enemies? A thought anyway.
Today’s sharing review has a bit of a family stories theme . . .
This photo caught my eye on morguefile.com as well.
This is the season of letting go. The thought comes a few weeks ago. I walk around with it uncertain. Letting go is not just about loss. It can feel good to lay down heavy things.That is what I tell myself. I try many times to write before I can find words. I promise myself I can throw it away unseen.
If this were the season of letting go, I would. . .
Let go of all the measurements and calculations to prove that I’m okay.
Let go of attempts to be good enough to merit love
Let go of all the people I have tried to get to fill the holes. Really. Let them all go. Wander out into traffic to forget me or not.
Let go of protecting myself from failure (who defines that anyway?)
Let go of needing to prove something, protect something, and stand out as something.
Let go of the worry about where I fit or what people think
I keep picturing Boy two and the bird. We were on our way down the driveway when I saw the cat. She had a bird in her mouth. I stopped the car. Boy two tore open the sliding door and leapt out. He pried open her jaws with his fingers and against her wishes, the cat let go. The bird flew up from her mouth into the air, across the lawn and into the sky.
I am the cat right now, but maybe I will also be the bird.
That’s how far I get. After that weeks go by and I can’t look at what I’d written or think another single thought about letting go. So much for the cat and the bird.
Over the weekend, I take Boy one to the airport to fly alone across three provinces. Upon arrival he is to find a taxi, buy a bus ticket, and use up five hours (all composed of sixty minutes) before boarding a bus. At the other end of the bus ride is two weeks of summer camp a very long way from home. It is my idea. (A fact which I hate myself for all the way to the airport.) Boy one is a tiny bit nervous (not nearly enough) but also intoxicated with the joy of so much trust, independence and adventure. I hug him goodbye at the airport. He walks away smiling.
Back in the car, I remember the season of letting go. My boy, in the air, above me, beyond me is tearing my heart out. I see a picture of us. Me privately grieving while I smile and gently push him away. He is too happy to see my tears. He cannot stop grinning. This is great comfort indeed. My heart hurts, but I’m doing my job if in only a whisper I can croak out the word, “Fly!” to my son.
A question knocks at the door of me. Might a season of letting go become also a season of flight? Not just for him, but for me?
I’m going to aim to post on Tuesdays for the summer, and then again on either Thursday or Friday. Quiet is a bit harder to find around here when school is out. Although I’m getting better at maintaining a train of thought in between door slammings and Lego negotiations, it has it’s limits. I’m attempting a zen kind of peace about the whole thing by trying to go with the flow.
The kids have not yet come down off the high the comes from the end of school and summer’s arrival. They wake up eager to plan adventures and get togethers. Mention of tasks requiring physical labor produce disbelief. A sense of rising injustice follows quickly. Right on the heels of that a disorientation sets in (always against their will). This allows them to forget what they were told and divert to something more pleasant.
See you Tuesday . . .
We’re just coming off of Canada Day – if you’re Canadian, please consider signing a petition on behalf of some of your fellow citizens whose treatment is deeply grieving. An article here outlines the frustrations of a community that has been on a boil water advisory now for 17 years.
Canadians can sign the petition here http://community.sumofus.org/p/freedomroad. (It takes about ten seconds.)
If you’re not Canadian (happy July 4th to many of you) please consider speaking up for some of your own forgotten citizens as a way of honoring your country.
picture compliments of morguefile.com
I have been pondering shoes. I got into a conversation with someone a little while ago about photographing shoes instead of faces. Now I keep seeing shoes.
My feet are familiar with four sets.
- Sneakers. Black with pink Nike check. They impressed me on my sister-in-law’s feet a few years ago. She said it was okay to buy the same pair.
- Black shoes. I wear these anytime it is cold and can’t wear sneakers. They have a sturdy rubber sole and could have been worn by my grandmother, ergo, their style is timeless.
- Brown fancy sandals (by fancy I mean not a birkentock): 1/4 flat sole. Three strands of leather. Worn when it is too hot for the black shoes
- Rubber boots (also black). The gold standard of farm footwear.
I checked and found the following buried in my closet. Writing about them may push their expiry date.
- Brown loafers (Too big. Fall off if I don’t walk carefully.)
- Blue sneakers (Too big. Kept for sentimental reasons)
- High tops (Too small. Kept because I don’t like the idea of not owning good basketball shoes.)
- Old black shoes (recently revived by shoe polish they strongly resemble current black shoes.)
- Ugliest pair of brown sandals ever (worn only when I can think of no other ways to punish myself.)
- Blue heavy duty sandals (quite ripped and discolored. worn if there is water within a mile and I can pretend they are just my water shoes)
I probably don’t have to spell out the fact that my life has not involved a great deal of interest in shoes. Now that I am noticing them, shoes everywhere are catching me off guard.
Take B’s shoes, for instance. Each pair I have noticed are woefully unprepared for fight or flight and surprisingly not the least bit concerned about it. They look smart – as in intelligent. Can a shoe do this or am I projecting? I would not describe B as someone who sashays across a room. Her shoes, on the other hand, well, B’s shoes are unapologetically having a good time. My shoes look at each other sideways. Are they supposed to be having fun?
RA would no more wear a shoe devoid of style than one would chop off a toe. It isn’t done. But style, I learned, is not enough. There is a running shoe for actually jogging and a different one entirely for hiking in the park. From this I infer there to be shoes made for church but not for weddings and vice versa. Could there be shoes for dinner dates and movies? Concerts and parties? My black shoes pretend not to be curious.
J’s shoes are stylish but understated. Always sharp and classy, one can imagine them being gracious, even compassionate towards the serviceable shoe. All my shoes appreciate the vote of confidence.
C loves the cute shoe. C sees particular shoes in relation to specific situations, but unlike RA (whose primary concern is the correct choice) C’s shoes are about celebration. If they could sing or dance, C’s shoes would do the cha cha. Celebrate with me, they say. Life is good . . . and even when it’s not, you’ll feel better looking at me! None of my shoes know how to respond to this. What self respecting shoe would want to be looked at?
One day the sun comes up and moves across the sky just like the day before. The next day, I unwittingly discover an alternate world about five feet below my line of vision. Unbeknownst to me, it has co-existed all around me for years. My feet are asking questions. My shoes are not sure what to expect.